


put one shot between my eyes, if you please

by allgrift



Series: art-music-poetry- it's all grift. [2]
Category: BioShock
Genre: Homelessness, M/M, Prostitution, its implied but it happens, their relationship isnt the best let's say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 09:04:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5534084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allgrift/pseuds/allgrift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Did you enjoy the performance, sir?” Hector asked, wincing at just how tired his own voice sounded.</p><p>The man’s eyes seemed to snap with an inner fire, and Hector was drawn toward that light, as surely as a man is drawn to the warmth of a single candle in a blizzard.</p><p>The man in the dove-grey suit smiled. </p><p>“No need to call me sir, Hector- not right now, anyway. The name is Sander, Sander Cohen.”</p><p>--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</p><p>Hector Rodriguez and Sander Cohen didn't meet beneath the waves. They met in a shady New York bar. Here's how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	put one shot between my eyes, if you please

Hector rearranged his coat for what must have been the fourteenth time, and placed a less than genuine smile on his face. Enough to fool the bar regulars? Probably not, but it was nice to imagine that it would be. He concentrated on ignoring the heaving of his stomach (he’d put nothing in it but free alcohol since Monday) and splashed water under his face, hoping to decrease the puffiness of his eyes, the dark hyperpigmentation below his eyes. The water only succeeded in making his cheeks red, and provoking a shiver as the draft from the door laid a cold hand against his face.

Drying his features with a quick swipe of his coat sleeve, he headed back into the dark underbelly of the bar, ignoring the sticky surface of the filthy bar floor under his heels. He didn’t have much of an ass- even he would admit it- but he felt someone grab at it as he moved through the standing bargoers. Though it was a little rougher than he preferred, he let it go. While the word “prostitution” was never placed on what he did, he knew it was pretty damn close. A slightly older man grinned at him, his hand still outstretched.

“You wanna sit with me a while?” he asked, but he shook his head. “Still gotta make my daily wage,” he replied, though he didn’t want to turn the man down and possibly miss out on getting a bed for the night. 

Hey, it wasn’t prostitution if they didn’t pay you in money. A warm bed wasn’t comparable to a fistful of hard cash- but to Hector, the bed was more desirable at this point than any profit he’d turn from a midnight escapade.

“Hey, leave me alone!”

On the other side of the bar, a man slumped against the side of the counter, hiding his face with his hat. Hector realized, with a shock, that a police officer stood over the man, writing in a notebook.

“Sir, you were meant to enlist in the U.S. Forces two months ago. Knowing and willful refusal to present oneself for and submit to registration as ordered is punishable by a maximum penalty of up to five years in Federal prison.” The man shakes, but the officer continues. “Or, a fine of 250,000 dollars. You don’t look like you can pay that fine. So I’ll thank you to come along quietly.”

Hector bit his lip, but did his best to conceal how the conversation shook him, fixing his eyes on the hem of a lowcut top as the officer escorted the man from the bar with a heavy hand. That could have been him- it might have been him if his luck changed. He remembered draft papers on his doormat, in the apartment he'd so recently fled. A fistful of draft papers burning in his fire, the night before he broke his lease and decided to try his luck on the streets. 

Yeah, that was way too close to his own situation for comfort. 

Lecherous hands grabbed at his hips again, and shook him from his daze- it was the same man from before. Some people apparently didn’t get the message the first time around. 

“Hey, look, no touching until tonight,” he grinned, slipping out of the man’s grasp. 

The man gave his ass a parting grope, before releasing him.  
He headed to the bar where a spot was reserved for him next to the piano. A scotch with milk was sitting on the high stool, and after looking around, Hector decided that it was for him, and drank down a good gulp of it. That milk was probably the first nutritious substance to have passed his lips within the last seventy-two hours, he ruminated. Even though his face was a mess, he thought maybe he still looked good, and he checked his reflection in the bar mirror across from the drinks before settling on the stool. He knew he’d have to go back onto that little stage, sing a few numbers when the pianist got there. That was unfortunate- at the present moment, he wasn’t sure how long he could stand.  
He rose from the stool, jerking his head at the pianist, who drooped over the counter, her hair escaping from her usually collected victory rolls, and deep in a glass of absinthe. With a dissipate wave, she got up, setting her heels down heavily as she sat down at the piano bench. Hector winced as she bungled a chord, before easing into a jazzy run. He took that as his cue, and moved close to the microphone as he began to sing.

Then, he felt eyes on him. That sensation wasn’t an odd one: every performance brought its share of starers who couldnt- or didnt want to- move their eyes off him for the duration of his act. Some people might have found the experience unsettling, but Hector found it exciting. Slowly, he raised his eyes, swiveling his hips a bit more as he searched the dissolute crowd for his apparent fan. Not the suave Italian man in the front, who seemed more interested in the sleek woman on his arm, or for that manner, his dinner date either. Not the blond woman in the threadbare green dress, or the tall man with a birthmark covering half his face… He almost stumbled over the line he was singing as he spotted him: a wraith thin man in the front row, black hair that showed the progress of his scalp eroding, carefully covering the dome of his head like thatch over a particularly poverty-stricken roof. He let a wide (false) smile spread across his face. Gotta keep the audience happy.

He canted his hips forward slightly, and made eye contact with the man, singing the next bars of the song directly to him. At a closer look, the man didn't look that bad- sure, maybe he was a little older, but his face held a pleasant expression (and not too many wrinkles), his mustache was nattily trimmed, and he wore an expensive-looking suit. He’d developed this method of picking out a few audience members and singing to them, the ones who looked the most interested. Interest, plus extra funds, often got him generous tips.

During the next song, he attempted to shift his gaze to a tired but well-dressed woman in the third row, but the besuited man, once again, held his gaze, drawing his eyes to him as if there were threads, drawing his eyes to look. That would not be unusual in most circumstances, but the man was not his type, and something about him was slightly off center. Hector tried to again shift his gaze to another member of the audience, but he didn't even have a chance to take in the crowd before the man moved forward in his chair.  
Hector wiped nervous perspiration from his neck: he couldn't remember the last time he’d felt so nervous, but today, he felt as though he might keel over. Of course, that sensation could also be from his involuntary fast, but he thought it was from the way the man’s eyes roved over his body. He felt naked, exposed.

After their set was over, the milling crowd came forward, dropping tip after tip into the tin that Hector held out with nerveless fingers. He was so on edge that he flinched with every clatter that the change made as it dropped into the tin- he thought he could feel the ricocheting coins in his bones.  
The man’s fingers rasped together as he touched the back of Hector’s hand, and he restrained a shudder.

“Did you enjoy the performance, sir?” he asked, wincing at just how tired his own voice sounded. Ragged, worn at the edges and at the seams, and, increasingly, too much like his own state. He had to get out of this situation, he told himself again.

“I did. You’re good. Too good.”

“Come again?”

The side of the man’s face quirked upward into a half-smile, and Hector realized that he’d misspoke.

“I mean, Hector, that you’re too good for this bar, too good for that accompanist, too good for this entire venue. What in the world are you doing here?”

Hector cast a glare toward the bartender, who was blatantly ignoring him- or maybe he just had a long line of people to attend to, Hector couldn’t tell. That bastard needed to stop spreading his name around to the first well-dressed fellow who asked (although, Hector would concede that it had been great for getting him a place to sleep most nights).

“Getting by,” he told the man, trying to sound aloof, though the way the man remarked on his skill had created a warm swell in his chest. He puffed it out slightly. God, he’d forgotten what pride was.

“Surely a man like you must have scores of directors, choirs, casting agents, all ready to call you back,” the man said as he adjusted his dove-grey suit, pursing his lips in what seemed like concern.

“Or maybe you have your own reasons for not being interested in fame. It is definitely difficult to find a job when one is a draft dodger, for instance, or has no fixed address...”

Hector was itching to speak- he could feel the words trembling in his mouth before they leapt forward.

“Pardon me, sir, but I’m not any kind of choirboy. I’m an actor, the singing is just something I do to get by… just like I said before. And I don’t need a place to live.”

“I stand corrected,” the man replied, with a dramatic sweep of his hand, as though to wipe the slate clean. “As a fellow actor, I should have recognised your talent as such. Of course, I style myself a director as well as an actor, and a playwright and composer to boot- I do all four.”

“That certainly is impressive, sir,” Hector said, meeting the man’s eyes. To his surprise, the man’s eyes weren’t the dull, ground-down facade to which he’d grown accustomed: his own visage carried a similar look, he was sure.

Instead, the man’s eyes seemed to snap with an inner fire, and Hector was drawn toward that light, as surely as a man is drawn to the warmth of a single candle in a blizzard.  
“No need to call me sir, Hector- not right now, anyway. The name is Sander, Sander Cohen.”

Hector’s mouth gaped for a second before he shut it with a click. The Sander Cohen, here in this dive of a bar? He’d heard of the highly experimental artist, of course, as had most of New York City, but he’d never expected to see the man in person, and certainly not up close, yet here he was, six inches away, and moving closer still.

“I was captivated by you, Hector,” Sander Cohen said to him in sotte voce tones, and Hector swallowed.

“Me, sir- I mean, Mr. Cohen?”

“Of course: god knows I wasn’t interested in the pianist. If you’re interested in my acting company, there’s a place for you, and besides, you have quite the stage presence. With your permission, I’d love to capture it in a photograph, or a painting. You’d have to come back to my apartment, of course…”

“I don’t do that,” Hector blurted out, before he could stop himself. That little taste of pride was all he had to hold between himself and certain humiliation, and he couldn’t let it go. A photograph was permanent, could damage his reputation as an actor for years to come.

“Excuse me. I’m- I’m going home.”

He didn’t have any home to go to, so he just brushed past Cohen, and out into the street.

The moment he stepped outside, he knew it was a mistake. Something had changed in the air, something had altered it. The wind was stronger, and edged with what felt like icy blasts of air. He pulled his hands into the sleeves of his meager jacket, and dug his nails into his hands. As though to remind him of his dire predicament, his stomach growled. If he sat down on the curb and let himself starve, would anyone notice? Would anyone even care?

He huddled into his jacket even further when he heard a voice behind him.

“My offer still stands, Hector. You think you can outlast the winter? You have no steady job, nowhere to go. In fact, I’m going to be even more generous. I’ll throw in a room for you, a room in a house where people won’t ask questions.”

The implicit “you won’t be given this offer twice” was there, underlying Cohen’s words. It didn’t need to be: Hector had already made his decision. Fine, he’d sit for a photograph. He’d sit for a photograph in a skirt, if need be.

“I would like that,” he said, voice firm (as though it had been his idea in the first place), and kept himself from flinching when Cohen laid his hand on his shoulder.

“Is there anything else you need to get?” Cohen asked him, and he nodded, subdued, but still clinging to that small shard of pride he’d managed to glean. A quick trip to the back room, and he had his knapsack in hand. Kind of pitiful, really, how little he had to bring with him. As always, he traveled light. Light bags, light heart- although at the moment, he  
felt anything but light.

Cohen led him to a passing taxi, and gave the driver directions with a magnanimous air that left Hector more than subdued during the ride to Cohen’s place. The interior of the taxi, while less than clean, was still better than the sweaty bus seats that Hector couldn’t afford. He looked out the windows, trying not to look intimidated by the ranks of increasingly more prosperous neighborhoods they were passing through. A soft weight rested on his leg, and squeezed: he almost jumped as he stared down to see a thin hand, with well kept fingernails, resting on his leg. Cohen smiled, and squeezed his hand tighter around Hector’s thigh, and Hector offered a thin smile. Usually, that kind of thing turned him on, made his blood burn brighter, but he just felt cold tonight.

The artist’s “apartment” turned out to be a studio apartment in a tasteful brownstone, located uptown. Cohen led him out of the cab, and up a flight of clean, well-lit stairs. Not even a whiff of urine hung about the stairs: obviously, they weren’t considered a public toilet here, as the rickety steps of Hector’s tenement building were. Hector tried to fold his jacket over his arm so the worn spots didn’t show, and stuck his chest out. If he faked it long enough, his confidence would return.

Cohen’s apartment was carpeted in red, with blush colored wallpaper that reminded Hector of the interior of a seashell. Shelves with lacquered puzzle boxes and paintings lined the walls, along with racks of sheet music. A grand piano dominated one corner of the room, writing utensils and closely scribbled sheets of music scattered across its bench and music stand.

The other part of the room was an ad hoc art studio, filled with an easel, paint materials, and other miscellaneous paraphernalia. A red chaise lounge stood by a draped white backdrop, as though prepared for a model. As he passed the worktable upon which the easel rested, Cohen lifted a glass filled with a cloudy substance, and poured it into a dead plant which stood in an urn by the wall.

“Can’t keep all these dirty glasses of paint water around,” he muttered, and turned to Hector, almost beaming. “I thought I’d discuss the possibility of employment again. I’ll need  
to take reference images first, via photograph, and then we can start on the portraiture.”

He poured a series of shots into a row of small blue glasses, which seemed at odds with the rest of the room.

“Drink up, get some warmth in you,” he said affably. “I’ll grab the photography equipment, set it up. I’ll tell you when I need you.”

Hector nodded, and stared at the row of shots. Five shots, and none of them between his eyes. Pity. He shook his head, and tipped back the first. He’d been drinking all night on an empty stomach, and by the time he had swallowed the fourth shot, he was floating. Didn’t know what was in them, didn’t care. He swallowed down the fifth, and felt his head soar somewhere up towards the ceiling.

Cohen stepped into his line of vision, and Hector grinned at him welcomingly. Removed from the smoky den, Cohen was handsome, in a languid kind of way.

“I have the camera all set up,” Cohen explained, and Hector smiled wider.

“I’m suuuure you do,” he nodded, starting to get up. Cohen reached out, played his hand over Hector’s shoulders. Hector didn’t mind. Instead, he grinned at Cohen, squared up his muscles a little. Cohen’s hands, while graceful, were a little too rough, flitting over his shoulders like paper caught in a strong breeze.

“Let’s have you take your shirt off, little moth,” Cohen muttered in his ear. 

“Of course, sir,” he said, the words slip-sliding in his mouth, though his hands were able to remove his shirt and undershirt with no trouble.

“Now your trousers.”

Hector bit his lip as Cohen’s hand dipped lower, unfastening his pants. He stepped out of them, removed his shoes, bating the urge to cover himself.

“Now, I’d like you on the chaise lounge- you think that you can do that?”

“Course I can, sir,” he laughed, although there was nothing really funny about what Cohen had said. It was just… the smoothness which with the man had said it.

Hector reclined, one vertebra at a time, brown eyes (softened by alcohol) fixed on Cohen. His face felt warm: maybe he was blushing? Around Hector, Cohen flitted, raising an arm here, a knee here, posing him to his own standards. The man’s touch warmed his limbs, and he had to stop himself from trembling like a fucking virgin. The pose was almost like a pin-up he’d seen once: legs crossed artfully, arms crooked under his head.

Then Cohen retreated behind the camera. Hector squinted into the dead-eyed lens of the camera, and a spell of sickness swept over him. Cohen’s voice soothed him, as it reached out from behind the camera. 

“Ready? Look up- no, look down, then look up from that position- okay, good! You’re doing wonderfully, Hector.”

At the praise, Hector felt his chest warm even more, as deliciously as though he was drinking a soothing glass of hot milk on a night when he just couldn’t get to sleep.

“Beautiful, Hector. Hold that pose- look at you, you’re just on fire! Clearly your stage presence is a strong one- you were meant for this! You do look good on film: you know, you could act on film as well, really. We’re not constrained to the stage, and the talent is there. With you- well, I wouldn’t need to depend on the usual cloddish actors I’m stuck with. You’re a cut above the rest, Hector.”

Cohen’s voice rose above the popping lights, growing more and more passionate as he warmed to his subject. The bright flashbulbs of the camera almost overwhelmed Hector’s vision in bright starbursts, like the brightness of the sun. Hector’s body trembled, though Cohen had barely touched him, and he basked in the light, as though he was fixed in God’s eye. He felt admired, he felt cared for- was this what it felt like to be loved? He looked up with a hesitancy that was almost reverent, and from within the brightness, he heard a voice.

“Keep smiling at me, Hector.”

“Yes, yes, I will,” he replied fervently, his lips cracking apart at the corners as he grinned wider, knees drifting apart as his chest warmed with that heavenly flashbulb light.


End file.
